


Marching Powder

by LizaPod



Series: Make Out Kids [3]
Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Rimming, casual manipulative drug use, casual sexualized violence, look the author has a massive boner for mickey and his fucked up little head, rimming that isn't romantic or sweet or pretty, the state looks down on sodomy but mickey doesn't, very rude language, very very rude language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaPod/pseuds/LizaPod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey’s scratching his balls on the back porch watching two of the dickheads from the football team roll around half naked in front of chicks to prove how straight they are, sucking on his bummed cigarette and wondering if the coke’s kicked in yet when a crowd comes pouring out the door next to him. The football douches get trampled while the screaming idiots clear out enough for Mickey to see that they’re following a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marching Powder

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey is my favorite.

Ian does his first line of coke off the back of Mickey’s stolen ipod. Mickey shoves it back in his pocket, safe between his wallet and his ass, and watches Ian rub at his nose. Outside the bathroom door, the party rages; shitty home-made dubstep thuds up through the floorboards through the walls and sets his balls on edge. 

“You good?” he asks, and adjusts his dick in his pants. He’s on his second line and he’s itching for a fight, for a fuck. He has _plans_ for the night, great fucking plans that involve blowing this stupid kiddie party and taking Ian apart with his fists and his dick until Firecrotch is too fucking destroyed to talk about geometry or ROTC or Frank. 

Ian pulls his hand away from his nose and shoves it in his pocket and shrugs. “Yeah, good. How long will it-“

“Twenty minutes, half hour tops,” Mickey says. Ian always wants to fucking _talk_ when his mouth has way more interesting things it could be doing. He runs the tip of his tongue over his teeth. Something breaks outside the door, glass or a dish or something, and Ian jerks like someone is gonna burst in on them. He shoves Ian back against the sink. He shoves his knee between Ian’s leg and his hands into his hair and kisses him. He wants to shove himself down Ian’s throat and up his ass until he’s all Ian thinks about. 

Coke makes him stupidly possessive. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Ian mumbles after Mickey stops trying to suck all the air from his lungs. His mouth is redder than normal when he smiles and ducks his head. Mickey pulls his head back so he can smack the smile off his face. 

“You look at me like that when we’re out there and I’ll cut off your dick, got it?” he says, and covers Ian’s mouth with his hand free hand. His cheek is already going red where Mickey hit him, even though it really wasn’t that hard. “I will cut off your dick and fuck you with it.” 

“Mmfkmky.” Ian nods behind Mickey’s hand. 

“Whatever. Go be straight at Mandy,” Mickey orders, and smacks Ian’s cheek again.

* * *

Mickey’s scratching his balls on the back porch watching two of the dickheads from the football team roll around half naked in front of chicks to prove how straight they are, sucking on his bummed cigarette and wondering if the coke’s kicked in yet when a crowd comes pouring out the door next to him. The football douches get trampled while the screaming idiots clear out enough for Mickey to see that they’re following a fight.

A fight starring Ian Fucking Gallagher and one of the dudes Mandy used to fuck, and one of the dudes she didn’t fuck but who wanted to fuck her before she started not-fucking Ian. 

“Aren’t you gonna help him?” Mandy demands, punching him in the arm. 

“Why the fuck would I help him?” He’s still gearing up for a fight but Gallagher’s got it under control and it’s kinda gay to jump in just to help him. He’s not a fucking knight in shining armor and Ian’s getting ninja lessons or something in baby army. 

“They called me a slut, fuckface!” 

“But you _are_ a slut.” He stabs out the cigarette and adjusts his dick again when Ian punches one of the fuckers across the face.

“NOT ANY MORE!” Mandy hits him again and he swears. “Go get my boyfriend!” 

“He’s not really your fucking boyfriend, is he,” Mickey mutters but hauls himself up. Beating douchebags to a pulp isn’t a half-bad way to start the night. Maybe it’ll get them out of the party faster. He cracks his neck and knuckles and flings himself off the porch fists-first. 

He ends up taking Ian’s fist to the forehead when he knocks into the bigger douche. It fucking _hurts_ but now he’s pretty sure Ian’s feeling the cocaine because he doesn’t so much as slow down before going after the other dude. Mickey knees his in the dick and then in the face when he goes down whimpering like a bitch. He’s flying on coke and adrenaline and testosterone. He kicks his douche once for good measure then stands on his hand- he’s pretty sure the guy’s on the football team, too, and grinds his heel down out of spite- and watches Ian finish his off. 

“Call her a slut again and I’ll cut off your dick and FUCK YOU WITH IT,” Ian yells, falling down on top of the douchebag and punching him again and again. Mickey wonders if that weird feeling in his gut is pride. 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY PARTY,” some shrill bitch screams behind him, and he gets hit in the back with what’s probably an empty beer can. “WHO EVEN LET MILKOVICH IN HERE?”

“We’re going, bitch,” Mickey yells, grabbing Ian by the collar of his shirt. “Stop fucking shrieking or Mandy’ll punch you.”

“Don’t drag me into this, fuckface!”

“Well, I don’t hit girls!” 

Ian is holding him back by being dead weight on the end of his arm. Mickey tugs harder, like he’s pulling a dog on a leash, and hears fabric rip.

“Fucking faggots, don’t run away,” one of the bleeding douchebag mumbles; Ian breaks free and kicks him in the gut again to shut him up, then stomps up the stairs past Mickey and Mandy. Mickey hits his sister in the arm again and follows after him. He can tell he’s grinning like a shit. The fight is mixing with the coke in his blood and it’s all going to his balls and he wants to do another line and shove Ian down and fuck him to pieces.  


They burst out the other side of the house the same way Ian burst out the back door and practically fall down the stairs. Mickey slings one arm around Ian’s neck and twists his tit with the other, dragging his head down to his own level. “Fucking great shit, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, Mickey,” Ian snaps. 

“C’mon, Firecrotch, before the dickfaces come after you.” Mickey drags him down the sidewalk, away from the shit party and shit douchebags and the crowds of people who were preventing him from sticking his dick up Ian. As much as he fucking wants to bend Ian over the kitchen table and pound him in front of everyone (or the other way around, he’s not picky, just selfish), that’s a fucking death sentence in this neighborhood. And death would get in the way of getting off.

Eight blocks and two turned corners away, Mickey hauls him into an alley under the Red Line and pushes him against a rusted-out pillar; the train screams past over their heads while he shoves his tongue down Ian’s throat. Ian’s hands grab at his ass down the back of his jeans, _hard_ , and Mickey gropes for Ian’s dick through the front of his. He bites Ian’s lip, hard, over where it’s split and crusted with dried blood from the football douche getting a lucky shot in. 

“Ffffuck _ow_ ,” Ian hisses, and bites Mickey back. Mickey grins, licking Ian’s blood off his own mouth. 

“You want another line?” Mickey asks between bites at the corner of Ian’s jaw, where there’s not even a hint of fucking stubble. 

“Yeah, shit, okay,” Ian says. He pulls his hands out of Mickey’s jeans and rubs at his arms. “Lip’s gonna kill me, I think he’s writing Tony’s civ paper.” 

“Shut the fuck up about your brother,” Mickey snaps, fishing the baggie out of his pocket. He licks his finger and dips it in the powder, shoves it up Ian’s nose. Ian snorts and chokes and pulls Mickey’s finger out of his nostril, rubs at his face. 

“That’s fucking gross,” Ian complains. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey tells him, and takes another snort himself. “Why’re you always fucking talking when you should be sucking my dick?”

“Why’re you always being a dick when you want me to fuck you?” Ian pushes him away and Mickey shoves the coke back in his pocket. 

“Who says I want you to fuck me?” Mickey shrugs and spits at Ian’s feet, grins, throws his arms out. “You’re fuckin’ full of yourself tonight, Gallagher.”

Ian lurches towards him and Mickey barely dodges the fist flying at his face. “Why don’t you suck _my_ dick, then?”

“My coke. You owe me, this shit’s expensive,” Mickey says, and ducks another swing mostly by luck. He’s grinning like a fucking idiot, and Ian’s got a weird mix of his usual sappy-fuck smile and something that looks a lot more like what he thinks _he_ looks like. It’s fucking hot. 

“Fuck you!” Ian finally catches him in the kidney with a fist, making him stumble back and go on the defensive. He isn’t a fancy fucking fighter like Ian, he doesn’t have some dick in camo teaching him, he’s just got what he’s learned from two older brothers and a drunk dad and years of being a public fucking menace. He tucks his head and charges forward, shoulder first into Gallagher’s chest and takes them both down.

Mickey’s only on top for about two seconds and one punch before Gallagher pulls his army ninja shit and flips them over; Mickey hits his head on concrete and flails against Ian’s punches. His dick’s half hard and Gallagher’s is making an impressive show in his fucking stupid skinny jeans. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Mickey yells, when Ian’s fist knocks his face sideways. He grabs for a fistful of Ian’s shirt, pulls his head down and headbutts him, hits him in the jaw. He flings himself over and gets Ian back on his back, wedged between his legs and arms still flailing. “Hold _fucking_ …”

He finally snags Ian’s hands, pins them over his head. He takes chunks of skin off his knuckles on the pavement but Ian’s pushing up with his hips, making Mickey’s dick grind against Firecrotch’s firecrotch through their clothes and making out becomes a better idea than trying to give him another split lip.

Mickey doesn’t let go of Ian’s wrists until he’s not fighting any more, when he’s got Ian’s skinny legs wrapped around his and he’s kissing back like the eager slut he is. As soon as his hands are free, Ian is pushing at Mickey’s shirt and grabbing at his shoulders like he’s already got a dick in him. Mickey goes for Ian’s throat, sucking at his jugular. Ian whines and pushes up against him, digs his nails into Mickey’s back. Mickey grunts and bites his neck, then his split lip so Ian gives him that fuck-hot whine again. 

“Fuck, Mickey, come on,” Ian says, and Mickey can feel one hand going for his belt. 

“Now who’s being a dick when you want me to fuck you?” Mickey grins and licks his own lips. He tastes blood, blood that’s probably as much Ian’s as it is his. He can see Ian’s bloody nose in the little bit of light that reaches them from the lamp across the street and the apartments on either side of the tracks. He’s pretty sure he’s got a busted lip, too, and his knuckles hurt. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, FAGGOTS,” some douchebag yells from the second floor. 

“GO FUCK YOUR WHORE MOM,” Mickey shouts back. As gay as it sounds in his own head, the mood is fucking ruined. He mashes his mouth against Ian’s one more time just in case the fucker upstairs is watching, and then crawls off him. He adjusts his dick and doesn’t offer Ian a hand up. “We’re goin’ to your place.”

“Lip’s got Karen over,” Ian mutters. Mickey watches him straighten his clothes; even in the dark he can tell Ian’s feeling himself up. 

“You got that stupid van, don’t you?” He jerks his head and grins. “Let’s fuckin’ go, man.”

The walk back to Ian’s place isn’t that long, except they’re both turned on and bloody. Six blocks and they pass Mickey’s street, a left turn and they pass the Cash-and-Grab, another right and they’re on Ian’s block. Trying to get through the house without Lip or Fiona catching them is stressful, sets Mickey on edge. He can hear Lip and his skanky blond upstairs. Ian takes his hand and pulls him towards the back door; Mickey pulls his fingers free before they’re halfway outside. 

The door opens with a deafening screech of rusty metal; Mickey tackles Ian into the backseat and shoves three fingers into Ian’s mouth. Ian coughs and spits and pushes Mickey off him, long enough to drag the door shut again. Mickey pushes Ian down and his shirt up, pinches his tit with damp fingers and grins like a fucking animal when Ian yelps.

“What the _fuck_ , man?” 

“You want me to fuck you or not?” Mickey demands, pushing his fingers back against Ian’s mouth. He’s going to fingerbang Firecrotch and then he’s going to fuck him, and if Ian has different ideas about how this is going down they’re gonna have problems. 

“Yeah, but shit, Mickey…”

“Then shut the fuck up and suck.” Mickey licks his lips when Ian’s tongue slides over his finger tips; his other hand goes for his belt. He has his dick out before Ian’s figured out that he should probably be getting his pants down, jerking sloppily and watching Ian’s mouth around his fingers. He’s gotta put his dick in Ian’s mouth more. Not tonight. But more. 

When Ian finally gets his jeans open and his gay as shit tighty whiteys down, just far enough that Mickey doesn’t have to get off him, Mickey pulls his fingers away from his mouth and shoves them between his asscheeks. He doesn’t insult Ian by asking if he’s comfortable or if he’s ready for this, just sort of pokes at his hole and gives him time to tell Mickey to fuck off. 

“Just fucking _do it_ ,” Ian hisses, shoving his hips up against Mickey’s fingers. 

“Yes fucking sir,” Mickey says, and pushes two fingers in. Firecrotch is _tight_. He knows that because he fingers him all the time, but it still fucking surprises him for some reason. Ian goes floppy against the upholstery, one knee hitched half up around Mickey’s side and the other dragging off the seat. Mickey watches him bites his lip, watches his hands clench into fists when Mickey goes for his prostate- he may have failed biology but he takes dick up the ass and he knows what makes the sparks go off in his balls- and he watches Ian watch him. He’s the fucking center of Ian’s attention and that’s what he fucking wants.

Ian swears when he tries to spread his legs wider like the slut Mickey knows he is and can’t because of his jeans. There’s a few seconds of frantic fumbling and then Ian’s missing a shoe and his pants are dangling from one ankle and he’s shoving his ass towards Mickey. Mickey gives him another finger, still groping himself and cursing the coke for making his dick stubborn. 

“You wanna show some fucking interest in the situation,” he mutters, and pokes Ian in the balls. 

“Shit, that’s never… what the hell…” Ian stammers and grabs for his cock.

“It’s the coke, man, just do something about it.” He pushes his fingers into Ian’s hole, probably too rough, just to watch him shake and hear him whine. He takes his hand off his own dick and pushes Ian’s legs open as wide as he can in the tiny space of the backseat. Ian makes a noise, this high girly whine and inches backwards, one knee practically over Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey twists his fingers again. Ian whines again.

“Mickey _please_ ,” he gasps. Mickey licks his lips and grins, bares his teeth. Ian’s glassy-eyed and Mickey can see that he’s gone all red even in the shitty light from streetlights. 

“You look…” Mickey swallows and licks his lips again, squeezes his dick. “Fuckin’ hot.” It’s about as close as he gets to saying something nice. It’s the coke. 

“C’mon, Mickey!” 

Mickey prods for Ian’s prostate again, just to make him whine, and pulls his fingers out. Ian’s stretched open, fucked out even though he hasn’t been properly fucked yet, and practically panting Mickey’s name. The light from the lamps doesn’t make it down far enough for him to really see Ian’s ass and that’s a damn fucking shame. 

“Move your fucking ass up,” he orders, pushing at Ian’s skinny thigh. 

“Just fuck me already,” Ian answers, but moves. Mickey drops down further, his ass in the air like someone’s gonna fuck him, too, and licks Ian’s asshole. He tastes sweat and god, probably shit, but he drags his tongue up Ian’s crack and spits on Ian’s stomach to get the flavor off his tastebuds. He doesn’t _stop_ , though, spitting and working two fingers back into Ian. With his face buried in Ian’s ass he can still hear Firecrotch whining and pleading like a little bitch. 

What he doesn’t hear in time are footsteps outside the van, until the door that he’s got one foot wedged against for balance opens and he falls face-first on Ian’s dick.

“What the oh fuck god gross oh god _what the fuck_!” 

“Fuck _off_ , Lip,” Ian snaps while Mickey gets himself upright and wipes his mouth. 

“You’re… with Mickey… _my fucking eyes_ , Jesus _Christ_ ,” Lip groans like the delicate nerd bitch he is, rubbing at his eyes like he can get the mental image of his precious baby brother getting his ass eaten out by the neighborhood thug. Between background panic that Lip’s going to tell people and plotting his death to keep him quiet- and his girlfriend’s, the nympho, whatever her name is, who’s watching over his shoulder like it’s fucking entertainment- Mickey is fucking _pleased_ that Ian’s not even trying to push him off. He grins and wipes at his mouth again, slow, making a point about just what the fuck he was doing before being interrupted.

“Unless you wanna get your dick out and join in, fuck off,” he says. “Got enough rubbers to go around.” Ian punches him and he slaps Ian’s thigh back, with the hand that’s not still fingering him in front of his brother.

Lip makes a truly unhealthy gurgling noise and pulls at his own face. “I’m going to go kill myself now, okay, um don’t do… oh god just _augh_.” 

Mickey laughs when Lip slams the door shut again and apparently stumbles back to the safety of the house to drink bleach or something.

“So I’m gonna have to kill him if he doesn’t keep his fuckin’ mouth shut,” Mickey tells Ian, emphasizing this information with a twist of his fingers.

“Oh my god just fuck me already,” Ian snaps, hitting him again. 

“Fuckin’ pushy.” Mickey pulls his hand away from Ian’s ass, leans in and spits on his asshole. He reaches around and grabs for his wallet, for the condom he shoved in it before heading out. Fuck, he might be stupid but he doesn’t want fucking herpes, and there’s no telling what Kash was doing before hooking up with Ian. 

He’s suited up and lined up in the time it takes sirens to start up down the block and scream by, pushing in and getting Ian’s nails in his shoulder before the noise fades around the corner. Mickey grabs the back of the seat for balance and Ian’s thigh for control while Ian bites his lip and shudders under him. He knows he’s making a fuck-awful face but Ian’s grabbing at his arm and letting out quiet, needy whines and he looks strung out and so fucking _pretty_ that Mickey grabs a fistful of his shoved-up shirt and kisses him.

Ian’s leg is wedged between Mickey’s waist and the seat, the other with jeans still dragging from his ankle is digging into the back of Mickey’s thigh. He winces when his shoulders are nearly clawed by Ian’s ragged fingernails, when he pushes forward until he’s balls-deep, when he bites Ian’s lip and tastes a new trickle of blood. 

Fucking Ian is like…

It’s fucking _great_. He’s no good at fucking words, he just feels like a fucking god with Ian under him. Mickey is a fucking genius. He braces his foot against the door and grinds down against Ian’s ass. He can’t decide what he likes better, kissing Ian bloody and keeping him breathless and whiny, or biting his throat and licking the sweat off his jaw and listening to Ian grunt his name. He switches back and forth, between kissing and biting, and always fucking him. 

The van squeaks on its bare wheels in unison with Mickey’s pace, making more noise than either of them. Mickey hadn’t noticed that Ian had pushed his jeans down until fingers are shoved past his mouth. He bites Ian’s fingers, sucks, licks, until Ian pulls them out. Mickey is kissing Ian again, sloppy bloody and rough, when he gets two fingers up his ass. 

It’s about as close to being in love as Mickey thinks he’s gonna get. It’s the coke, and the fingers in his ass, and not that he’s actually got feelings for the bastard.

Mickey rides him harder, faster, fucking past the possibility that he might being having a feeling. He swears when Ian’s bony fingers go for and hit his prostate, panting _shit fuck fuck _god__ against Ian’s throat. 

He feels like he could go on forever. He feels fucking immortal. 

Ian comes first, like a surprise, with a shudder and a gasp and an unimpressive splatter of semen against Mickey’s stomach. Mickey grabs Ian’s thigh and hitches it up higher, bending him almost double. He’s pounding Ian now; Ian’s clutching at his bare ass instead of fingering him with one hand and digging at his shoulder with the other. Mickey bites down hard on Ian’s shoulder, tasting blood and sweat. 

His orgasm is kind of shit when it hits him. His face screws up where it’s buried in Ian’s throat, his balls go tight and he swears against Ian’s skin but as orgasms go it’s kind of pathetic; he came harder last week when Ian gave him a handjob in the stall at Soldier Field. But it’s still a fucking orgasm and he’s got Ian’s knee up by his ear and the taste of Firecrotch’s blood on his tongue and cocaine still buzzing in his veins. It could be way fucking worse.

Mickey pulls out and gets rid of the condom, with its pathetic load of come, by tying a shitty knot and dropping it on the floor of the van. He hopes Lip finds it the next time he comes out to knock up his skank. 

Ian goes fishing for his jeans on the floor of the van and comes up with a slightly bent, half-gone joint and a lighter. Mickey pulls his jeans up over his ass and shifts his weight off Ian’s stomach while Ian lights up with only slightly shaking hands. 

“Gimme,” Mickey orders, and Ian holds the pot out for Mickey. Mickey doesn’t even bother taking it out of his hand, just turns Ian’s hand so he can take a pull. He blows the smoke back in Ian’s face and grins. “You’re gonna have another fuckin’ shiner.”

“So’re you,” Ian mutters, gesturing with the blunt. Mickey takes it while Ian struggles back into his pants. Neither of them has bothered to zip back up. 

“Mine make me look like a badass, you just look like someone stole your fuckin’ lunch money,” Mickey says, and gestures with the joint. “C’mere.” 

He takes a long drag and pulls Ian’s head closer, slotting their mouths together and blows the smoke down Ian’s lungs.

“Shiiiit, Mickey,” Ian sighs, like a fucking girl. Mickey boggarts the rest of the joint and stubs it out against the seat cushion. 

“Gotta go. See ya ‘round, firecrotch,” he says, and throws the van door open. He slams it shut again behind him before Ian can say anything else.

He barely remembers to zip his fly before he hops the fence and stomps off.


End file.
